Generalissimo / Live Date!: Core Collection

Inspired by this, I thought it might be fun to make a list of my own. I was initially thinking about making it a stand alone entry but then reconsidered so as to showcase one of the more obscure titles included. (The fact that I had been struggling with a satisfactory piece on it for several months was, needless to say, also a factor)

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— Louis Armstrong: The Complete RCA Victor Recordings
— Louis Armstrong Plays W.C. Handy
— The Complete Louis Armstrong and the Dukes of Dixieland
— Art Ensemble of Chicago: Americans Swinging in Paris: The Pathe Sessions
— Bix Beiderbecke Volume 1: Singin' the Blues
— Art Blakey's Jazz Messengers with Thelonious Monk
— Art Blakey and the Jazz Messengers: The Big Beat
— Clifford Brown and Max Roach Quintet with Harold Land: Complete Studio Recordings
— Don Cherry: Symphony for Improvisers
— John Coltrane: Blue Train
— John Coltrane: Olé Coltrane
— Miles Davis All Stars: Walkin'
— Miles Davis: Miles Ahead
— Miles Davis: Nefertiti
— Miles Davis: In a Silent Way
— Buddy DeFranco: Generalissimo / Live Date!
— Duke Ellington: Never No Lament: The Blanton-Webster Band 1940-1942
— Duke Ellington: Masterpieces by Ellington
— Duke Ellington Meets Coleman Hawkins
— Duke Ellington: ...And His Mother Called Him Bill
— Bill Evans: Sunday at the Village Vanguard
— Coleman Hawkins Encounters Ben Webster
— Jackie McLean: New and Old Gospel
— Charles Mingus: Blues and Roots
— Charles Mingus: The Black Saint and the Sinner Lady
— MJT+3
— The Modern Jazz Quartet: The Last Concert
— Lee Morgan: Tom Cat
— Art Pepper: Complete Surf Club Sessions
— Art Pepper Meets the Rhythm Section
— The Amazing Bud Powell, Volume 1
— Time Waits: The Amazing Bud Powell, Volume 4
— Sonny Rollins: Way Out West
— Clark Terry: Color Changes
— Fats Waller: If You Got to Ask, You Ain't Got It!
— Lester Young: Lester's Be-Bop Boogie
— The Young Lions

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A few points of interest:

• The Penguin Guide to Jazz considers the albums on their list to be essential to any serious jazz collection. I make no similar claim, not even for my own jazz collection. These are simply my favourites. I certainly recommend each and every one of these but I also appreciate that failing to pick up a copy of MJT+3 may not go down as a profound regret to carry with you to your dying day.

• Bix Beiderbecke Volume 1, Art Pepper Meets the Rhythm Section and Time Waits were all purchased by me in the past year. While it certainly is possible the gloss may well wear away in the years ahead, I can't see it happening. Other recent discoveries such as Shelly Manne's My Fair Lady, George Shearing's Complete Savoy Trio and Quintet Sessions and Jabbo Smith's Complete Hidden Treasure Sessions have impressed me but they weren't given much consideration.

• I hate to say it but the artists who appear more than once were probably held to a higher standard than the rest. Armstrong's Hot Fives and Sevens and his Ellington collaboration The Great Summit probably ought to appear as well but I don't get the same enjoyment from them than the three that appear. Same goes for Ellington. Davis' situation is slightly different since I'm largely going on memory. A sizeable chunk of my jazz CD's went missing a while ago and I'm forced to go by those that stand out most in my memory. Having said that, maybe there's something to making selections based purely on recollections. Walkin' and Miles Ahead are the two albums of his that I miss the most while I was so devastated by losing Nefertiti that I picked it up again almost immediately after I knew it was gone for good. In a Silent Way was a late addition to the list because it's not one I have much of an inclination to re-purchase but the impact it had on me back when I first listened to it in 1998 was pretty significant so it got an eleventh hour push.

• Seeing as how this entry is supposed to be about Buddy DeFranco's Generalissimo / Live Date!, I suppose I should state my reasons for including it. Firstly, it's probably my favourite album on my iPod - and the vast majority of the above are on it too. I take a lot of long bus rides and the jaunty, almost playful bop - particularly on the Generalissimo half of the two-fer - is the perfect antidote for many a long, boring commute. His version of the standard 'Sunday', which is the opener, swings beautifully and DeFranco, Barney Kessel and Sweets Edison all account for themselves very well. Even Hebie Mann, showing up on Live Date, does surprisingly well for himself. Second, it's given me a whole new appreciation for the clarinet. I admire the fact that DeFranco persisted with the licorice stick when it had clearly fallen out of favour in the post-Parker landscape. And, finally, it feels like an event, an important work by a major figure. I'm convinced that DeFranco and his co-horts knew they were doing something special on both of these April, 1958 sessions. The trouble is, I like it too much and feel I cannot adequately critique it as a result. As an outtake, here's the opening paragraph of my intended piece. Hopefully I can get my act together in the near future and do this fine musician the justice he deserves. Until then, appearing on a lowly blogger's Core Collection will just have to do.

All right, first things first: I kind of like the title. Perhaps an adequate amount of time has lapsed or I am woefully lacking in taste or I have long since accepted that the best way to belittle the horrifying aspects of a brutal dictator is to mock him ceaselessly; whatever the case may be, Generalissimo is a funny title and, as the well-intentioned liner-notes suggest, a nice bit of irony considering that everyone enjoyed working with Buddy DeFranco and he was happy to give his talented sidemen as much of the spotlight as he was getting. The notes even go on to state that the cover was also in bad taste but I think it only adds to the humour. Besides which, DeFranco's album covers often seem to edge their way into the comedically grotesque.) Even the notion that it was some tactless record company suit who came up with the title is to me an endearing throwback to pre-politically correct tiptoeing: could you possibly imagine a modern label allowing - much less suggesting - a title such as Osama's Bin Laudin' The Necks!? (Well intentioned though I'm sure he is, Morton James' introductory notes frequently lack a sense of perspective: the suggestion that the title may have impeeded it from being reissued sooner avoids the painful truth that Buddy DeFranco is no longer the name he once was - and it's not as though he was a household name fifty or sixty years ago. Though lauded by jazz musicians and industry types, who else has even heard of him?)

Hard Driving Jazz: Backseat Driving

"I said 'Coltrane okay, but I want to use all the musicians that I want.' I wanted to use Ted Curson, who's a much more contemporary trumpet player than the trumpet player I ended up with, Kenny Dorham."

Coltrane okay? That's quite a ringing endorsement there, Cecil.

Stereo Drive, aka Hard Driving Jazz, aka Coltrane Time, is an album of a few aliases and a couple leaders - or so we've been led to believe. Nowadays it is easiest acquired as a Blue Note release under Coltrane's name but upon its inital pressing in 1959 this was a Cecil Taylor session and album (the above cover credits the tenor sax to one "Blue Trane"). My own copy, released by the Spanish label Gambit Records, credits it as "Cecil Taylor with John Coltrane", a rather nice compromise to be sure but the bonus six bonus cuts are all from Jazz Advance, Taylor's breakthrough release from two years previous - a sign, if any were otherwise needed, that Taylor was the man in charge. If I were to guess I'd say that Coltrane's co-credit is shore up some interest from casual buyers - and, indeed, that was my primary motivation for investment.

Given that he was using an admittedly feeble alias - I imagine in order to appear on a rival record label's release, much like "Charlie Chan" on Jazz at Massey Hall - and the fact that his name appears in smaller print than even the supposedly unwanted Kenny Dorham, there's no way that the optics of the time could persuade you to believe that this is a Coltrane session with Taylor guesting. But what about if you pick up a copy of Coltrane Time, how would having his name as part of the title and his picture on the cover affect one's perception? Well, given that he is the first soloist on opener 'Shifting Down' - notably a Dorham composition, curious that Taylor would use a number by a musician that he didn't want to be there in the first place to commence the album - is Coltrane then you could be forgiven for making this assumption. The lack of lengthy, ponderous tenor solos must be seen in the context of albums from his pre-Atlantic period and the fact that he had also been playing second fiddle to both Miles Davis and Thelonious Monk: Taylor and Dorham are hardly Jimmy Garrison or Reggie Workman, there to serve every need and desire of the guru on tenor sax.


So, could this album have been called something like Kenny Dorham in the Driver's Seat, with the trumpeter being credited as leader? I don't see why not. Miles Davis once complained that Thelonious Monk would never lay out during his solos and the Dorham-Taylor relationship is reminiscent of this dysfunctional dynamic - but the pianist seemed just as willing to go on playing what he liked while Coltrane took the lead as well. Reviews suggest that Dorham disliked Taylor's playing just as much as Taylor disliked his and indicate a certain tension to the recordings as a result but I don't hear it. Certainly their styles often clash and I'm sure their personalities also failed to mesh but since when did collaborators have to be best friends and musical bosom buddies?

Perhaps failing to live up to the vision Taylor had initially in mind, Hard Driving Jazz works rather well precisely because of the contrast of styles and antagonism - and this is only reinforced by the bonus tracks. Whereas Cecil Taylor left in charge of a more sympathetic group of musicians often sounds impressive but aimless, this makes it obvious that his unique talent lends itself much better alongside individuals with whom he disagreed. And so too does Coltrane. And, dare I say, so too does Dorham.

Liberation Music Orchestra: The Rennie Davis Treatment

This is a makeshift incarnation of the Plastic Ono Band looking almost as if they're aware of what's going on. It's a fascinating photograph but probably not for reasons that may be initially assumed: I love the fact that I can name all of about six people in it. That's a double-chinned Eric Clapton about to whisper something slurred and incomprehensible into Lennon's ear and George Harrison standing above him, looking as cheerful as ever. Keith Moon is unaware of just what's going on and, finally, there's Billy Preston who mostly stands out due to his skin colour (it isn't just Yoko Ono's ethnicity and gender that distinguish her from the rest of these rogues, it's the fact that she appears refreshingly unconcerned with the proceedings). I suspect that's Pete Ham or another minor member of Badfinger in front of him at the far right but I can't be certain. I should acknowledge that possibly at this very moment there's a girl called Laurie or a boy called Christopher who's looking at their Grade 1 class picture and wondering just who the hell the buck-toothed bean pole is and in that respect I can fully empathize with the individuals in the back row.

Drugs and self-absorption had already curbed Lennon's remarkable talent but his politicization was probably the last nail in his creative coffin. (Upon hearing of the death of Elvis, Lennon famously remarked that the King had actually died when he began serving in the army; perhaps Lennon met his true premature passing when he began dissing the military...what, is it still too soon? Okay, fine, Lennon work tirelessly for world peace and it's only a pity he he then hit the bottle and completely lost interest. Is that better?) I'll never be so arrogant to suggest that politics has no place in popular music but it seems to inevitably affect artistic quality control. (How else did Lennon manage to convince himself to pen such uncharacteristically innocuous songs like 'All You Need is Love', 'Give Peace a Chance' and 'Power to the People'?)

Perhaps sensing this, Charlie Haden's Liberation Music Orchestra makes a game attempt to tackle issues while maintaining an admirably high standard of musical creativity - at least some of the time. The second side lags largely due to dullness on tracks 'Song for Ché' and - a particular disappointment - the otherwise outstanding Ornette Coleman composition 'War Orphans': in the case of the former, Haden's obvious admiration for Guavara probably puts him too close to its subject as the performance commences with him trudging through an over-long bass solo before finally moving on to some free-form nonsense courtesy of Don Cherry and Dewey Redman; the latter just drifts along, as if waiting for someone in this thirteen-piece orchestra to do something - a curiousity considering the foundation of this outfit was formed around Coleman offshoots. Once again, Haden's heart is probably at too close of a proximity to the subject matter to make objective creative decisions.

Haden's vision for the album is stirring but muddied and this is probably why Carla Bley was such a boon to these sessions. The Spanish Civil War medley 'El Quinto Regimento/Los Cuatro Generales/Viva la Quince Brigada' is the highlight and, as twenty-minute tracks go, is surprisingly concise. The whole thing is held together by Sam Brown's guitar and Bley on piano and they manage to keep the free-form madness from getting too out of hand. Gato Barbieri's section is especially memorable and it reminds me of some of his equally wonderful work on Cherry's minor masterpieces Complete Communion and Symphony for Improvisers. (It's possible that he knew how to best combine Haden's passion with Bley's professionalism, which seemed to have escaped the rest of the orchestra.) The shorter numbers - Bley originals 'The Introduction', 'The Ending to the First Side' and 'The Interlude (Drinking Music)', as well as shots at 'Song of the United Front' and 'We Shall Overcome' - are all great call-to-arms hum alongs with some stellar group playing: nothing gets especially out of hand but the rebel rousing isn't compromised one bit. If anything, the best case for the revolutionary spirit of Liberation Music Orchestra is in these numbers.

Similar to the way an actor or singer will coyly smile into a camera that strays into the audience at an awards ceremony, the figures in the Plastic Ono Band picture seem convinced that you know who they are - which obviously makes my ignorance as to their identities all the funnier; the Liberation Music Orchestra personnel don't appear to care whether you're able to recognize them or not. They cared about making a statement and creating some lovely music. At least they tried.

The Big Beat: The Dust of Everyday Life

It's now been five years since I fully fell for jazz. Oh, I had begun to explore it a lot earlier but it was mainly on the basis of curiosity and following the recommendations of guides such as The Virgin Encyclopedia of Sixities Music, which, thinking back on it now, placed vital works such as Kind of Blue, Giant Steps and The Black Saint and the Sinner Lady more within the context of the rock canon, thereby still keeping me at a distance from jazz itself. The figures that grabbed my attention early on even managed to fit nicely alongside the giants of rock as well - Davis was dark and fearless, a more talented, less sleazy Jim Morrison; Monk was iconoclastic and playful in the vein of Syd Barrett; Coltrane pretty much set the template for the doomed rock star, albeit one with a spiritual quest, making him a sort of love child of Johnny Cash and Kurt Cobain. These comparisons, of course, are nonsense but that's what the search for parallels can do to a guy: if we can't find actual similarities, then why not make them up?

The Big Beat brought these jazz as proto rock 'n' roll comparisons to a sudden end. Jazz was no longer operating in my mind as another kind of rock but as something altogether different and more exciting. The punk aesthetic that musical deficiencies can be made up for with attitude and desire went completely out the window. The passion that can occasionally make rock sound so vital was indeed present but so too was a musical intellectualism that I had never experienced before. It don't mean a thing if you can't play a thing...

I often blanche from discussing influences (something the bulk of rock critics hardly shy away from, as if something like Kick Out the Jams or Daydream Nation were to be justified solely on their impact on other artisits...come to think of it, they probably are) but it's worth mentioning just how important The Big Beat was for me. In the short term, it led to a huge Blue Note period that took up the bulk of 2006 and got me into Lee Morgan, Jackie McLean, Bud Powell, Tina Brooks, Don Cherry and Dexter Gordon. Soon, however, I began to rebel again the house that Rudy Van Gelder built and started exploring early swing and dixieland, a smattering of bop and onto West Coast cool which I'm currently interested in. Before Blakey, I had always figured that anything recorded prior to about 1950 sounded dated, unsophisticated, tacky and primitive. Attempts at listening to eminent figures such as Armstrong and Ellington left me disinterested; now, they're the mainstays of my entire collection. The Big Beat didn't simply open the door for everything that followed, it threw open the gates of jazz of all kinds, past, present and future. (I would never have given Lester Bowie's The Great Pretender or Wynton Marsalis' The Majesty of the Blues any kind of chance were it not for this great awakening of mine; dabbling ever so briefly into the throes of the ECM label was, however, as far into the present as I'm ever likely to go)

I had gotten into much wilder, seemingly more adventuresome works - On the Corner, Free Jazz - previously but that is beside the point. The reason A Love Supreme seems to appeal more to listeners with a rock background rather than jazz purists is that they tend to value passion and feeling above structure and proficiency and the bulk of the jazz you'll lible to find on a Rolling Stone 500 Greatest Albums list operate as surrogate rock records. Jazz appreciated as jazz begins here.

There is a famous story about how Art Blakey was out for a stroll and he happened upon a group of mourners at a local cemetry. He paid his respects to the deceased and then proceeded to tell everyone in attendance about his love for jazz. Apocryphal or not, this anecdote tells you all you need to know about what a tireless ambassador he was; listening to the Jazz Messengers turned me into one.

Ella Wishes You a Swinging Christmas: Surely Not Another Totally Unexpected Rendition

We live in an era where there's just about nothing more irrelevant for an artist to release than a Christmas album. Mostly a cynical cash grab, it's easy to forget that your favourite group or singer even did one - and that's assuming they even bothered as it's a rarity particularly among artists with "integrity".* But it wasn't always this way. Much as I hate to admit it, Phil Spector's otherwise indulgent Christmas album is at least a game attempt at injecting a little of the crackpot producer's creativity. Brian Wilson, as he was wont to do, followed suit and delivered a better record than his mad mentor, one that stands up well against other pre-Pet Sounds albums. And Motown's seasonal treats were handled with the same care they put into their enviable hit factory.† But since then acts from the rock era have contributed almost nothing of interest to the venerable Christmas song tradition. Yet again we must look to jazz for more substantive efforts.

Ella Fitzgerald took recording Christmas songs just as seriously as she took any other material. This harks back to a time when singers tackled a cover version as an artistic challenge rather than as a kindly tribute or a token gesture. Rather than being a pleasant diversion, standards were intrinsic to a good vocalist. The very fact that this now seems extraordinary speaks volumes for, while Fitzgerald did it better than nearly anyone else, she was hardly alone in doing so.

Made up largely of secular material, there is much fun to be had particularly in a sublime rendition of 'Jingle Bells' and probably the still-definitive reading of 'Santa Claus is Coming to Town'. On the other hand, I've never heard such a compelling 'White Christmas': rather than being a Hollywood tycoon's whinge, Fitzgerald and Frank DeVol's orchestra turn it into an early paean to environmentalism: instead of being inflected with traces of self-pity, Fitzgerald's voice sounds sorrowful in the knowledge that she'll never see snow again. It's a side of the Irving Berlin standard I've never contemplated before, much less heard. Admittedly, the more religious-themed bonus tracks kind of detract from the original album's joie de vivre but it's nice to hear someone take on hymns without either a jokey irony nor a sickening piousness.

Ella Wishes You a Swinging Christmas is a throwback and one I wish would make it's return to popular music. Much like a white Christmas, I fear it's nothing more than a dream.

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* Typically, pop stars over the past forty years have done far more good composing their own holiday favourite than putting together a tired cover version. In some cases (Wizzard and Slade are still the prime examples), this has even resulted in an act's most famous and renowned work.

† It's a mixed blessing that the Beatles never tried their hand at the Christmas album, especially considering their inconsequential fan club only seasonal discs. Still, it's a missing piece of their catalogue (the same way that there was never a Christmas episode of Fawlty Towers) no matter how minor and, considering their still-overwhelming influence, it might have resulted today's acts embarking on their own holiday albums.

Nefertiti: Development in Progress

I like the idea of an album acting as a way to catch up with what an artist or group has been up to. Not simply a document of what went on in the studio but of what was happening all around them. A creative ensemble without parallel, there's absolutely no way the Miles Davis Quintet wouldn't deliver an aural catch-up session with each release. Nefertiti's running order, in fact, reflects their chronological development since Sorcerer hit the shops half a year earlier. Thus, while a somewhat extreme example of what they'd been up to, the title track kicks things off practically right where 'Vonetta' had concluded Sorcerer.* Many find the repetition of Davis and Wayne Shorter's lines to be unlike anything they did before but, judging by their recordings as far back as E.S.P., it's likely they had this type of thing in mind for quite some time. Sometimes it's impossible to divorce an album from its best known track. The soothing, yet somewhat off-putting 'Nefertiti' frequently fools the listener into the delusion that the entire album is chock full of equally calm tunes. Deeper, more thorough listening, however, reveals that the title track is nothing but a blueprint for the remainder of the sessions.

Shorter's opening numbers - 'Fall' in addition to 'Nefertiti' - provide a nice introduction to what was going on but it's with Tony Williams' 'Hand Jive', however, that 'Nefertiti' really begins to take off. While a lesser composition than those by Shorter or Herbie Hancock, the performance easily compensates. Williams' drumming is positively manic throughout and, not to be upstaged, Davis rises to the occasion to deliver some superlative playing. Hancock's groovy pieces, 'Madness' and 'Riot', provide a less schizophrenic account of the Quintet's energy and, much to his credit, Shorter even responds with the far less meditative 'Pinocchio' to close things out. By this point less than forty minutes have passed but it's hard to believe that this much development has taken place in such a short amount of time. In a way, at least for some who aren't me, this burst of creative energy is the album's own undoing: it simply doesn't hang together as a unified work the way a more coherent but less fascinating record might. In this respect, and in this respect alone, it is the poor cousin to Sorcerer.

filles de Kilimanjaro, recorded a year later, is frequently described as Davis' great transitional album of the period but an equally good case could be made in this regard for Nefertiti.† Not just a showcase for how much his Quintet had developed since Sorcerer but displaying a development in progress over the course of the month or so it took to record. Not since Louis Armstrong cut the Hot Fives and Sevens had the studio been put to such good use as a creative tool and it hasn't proved as effective ever since.

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* This is purely from the listener's perspective, mind you. It matters little that 'Vonetta' wasn't the final track cut for Sorcerer, nor that 'Nefertiti' happened to be the first tune laid down at these sessions. Album track listings create a chronology all of their own.

† Having said that, just what works of Davis' aren't transitional? This is a topic I could go off on but am saving for a future entry.

Way Out West: I Wanna Be a Cowboy

Virtually everyone comments on the album's cover and I am no exception. Most remark on how funny it is which, in light of some of the all-too serious cover photos of the age (Mile Davis' Round About Midnight being the prime example), is indisputably true. When Thelonious Monk attempted to look quirky on the cover of Brilliant Corners it looked forced; when Charlie Mingus put on face paint and a red nose for The Clown it was done only to heighten the bassist's feelings of being a serious artiste trapped in the guise of an entertainer. In the Way Out West photograph Rollins looks at ease and sincere. Yes, sincere. I suspect more than a few fans and critics think the cover is meant to be ironic, that a black jazz musician would never in all seriousness want to be a cowboy. The truth is pretty much every North American boy of Rollins' generation - egged on by the many Roy Rogers films of the thirties and forties - loved wearing a Stetson, carrying around a toy hand gun and playing Cowboys and Indians with their friends (and, indeed, so did the Baby Boomers, particularly after Gunsmoke became a hit; Generation Xer's never had an any similar cowboy idols barring the odd Yosemite Sam).

The cover, to me, also reinforces Rollins' tacit approval of West Coast jazz, which in many circles at the time had been taking a beating - despite the fact many of these very same individuals were perfectly happy recording and listening to it when it was labelled "cool". I say reinforces because the music itself is the first sign of such an attitude, so much so that the comparatively swift 'Come, Gone' sounds out of place (did Rollins and producer Lester Koenig intend to pull a reverse Blue Note?*). The relaxed drumming of Shelley Manne could not have suited Rollins’ new strolling technique better. One might be forgiven for assuming that the slick rhythm section would compromise the great tenorist's virtuosity but it seems to complement it better than a contemporary hard bop unit would have. There's something nice about the threesome being such a rag tag bunch, seemingly ill-suited to meshing with one another. At a time when Davis' famed Rhythm Section was being courted by jazz soloists on both coasts (including Rollins himself on the vaunted but less interested Tenor Madness) and with units such as the Jazz Messengers and the Modern Jazz Quartet in the picture it's refreshing to discover that perfection could come at a cost.

Far from the perfect album, Way Out West is a success precisely due to its failings. The material chosen isn't exactly first rate but allows Rollins ample space for some solo pyrotechnics. The soloing itself, however, is frequently restrained which suits the West Coast feel. And working as a trio has its obvious failings as well - how isn't a fuller sound preferable to something so sparse? - but it's never as dull as many piano trios of the day. Lighthearted yet never throwaway, funny but never corny, Rollins struck a nice balance of art and entertainment. Look once again at the cover: what really makes it so funny is that he means it. And real artists always mean it, right?

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* Virtually every Blue Note album in my collection features one token, frequently unwanted ballad shoved in the midst of a collection of fast, catchy numbers. Way Out West seems to have taken the opposite tack.

Under the Jasmin Tree / Space: What You Have to Deal With

It's the Modern Jazz Quartet all right. Couldn't possibly be anyone else. But listening to this period it's impossible to imagine that this is the MJQ recorded, as they usually seemed to be, in a vacuum. The connections with the times, the place, the people and the record label cannot be divorced from what they were recording. Even if it's all in my imagination.

Thus, I hear in Under the Jasmin Tree's opening track 'Blue Necklace' a merging of the MJQ's classic sound with a psychedelic underpinning, particularly when Milt Jackson's vibes collapse into themselves twenty-one seconds into the piece and then again a few seconds later, Connie Kay's drums pounding gently yet in an uncharacteristically tribal manner. John Lewis and Percy Heath remain restrained, which, far from harming the number, manages to give it a nice tension as both factions fight for control, albeit as delicately as possible. The fact that Lewis and Jackson weren't on the exact same page was nothing new to the MJQ but where else could one find such a subtle power struggle? On Django? Conchorde? Even if this battle is entirely the product of my own imagination it's an alluring proposition for such a contemplative ensemble, particularly considering the parallel struggle occurring at the same time with their bosses Lennon and McCartney.

Reigned in by Lewis, Under the Jasmin Tree nonetheless remains mostly free of sixties rock clichés (uncharitably, one could argue that they instead were happy to partake in their own clichés). 'Three Little Feelings' is a suite in the tradition of Django's 'La Ronde Suite', the sort of thing Lewis in particular excelled at. The title track which closes out the album, however, is about as raucous as you'll ever hear the MJQ sound, further proof they slice their way through a good pop song as well as anyone.


Space, from early 1969, ups the psychedelia factor a touch more and, ironically, from the unlikeliest of sources: John Lewis! Whereas the Van Heusen-Burke standard 'Here's that Rainy Day' returns the MJQ to their fetish for Gershwin and Broadway and 'Adagio from Concierto de Aranjuez' explores third wave beautifully, it is the Lewis originals, 'Visitor from Mars' and 'Visitor from Venus', that have them grasping at space rock and raga like never before. Just as warring factions Lennon and McCartney conceived a veneer of unity on Abbey Road from the same year, these tracks display a coalescence of the MJQ's wild cards and their more sedate counterparts. Jackson and Lewis no longer sound like they're battling for control over their group's direction but in complete agreement - for the time being. The remainder of the album acts to remind us that this psychedelic direction was nothing more than a passing fancy, just as it had been for the Beatles themselves.

(Interestingly enough, The Beatles' Anthology series fails to mention the premiere outfit they signed, either an indication of how little jazz music meant to the Fab Four or simply a careless oversight on the part of the producers. Or perhaps a bit of both. Nevertheless, there's something oddly appropriate in ignoring the MJQ. Whereas Badfinger and Mary Hopkin needed the Beatle association (but struggled to escape it), John Lewis and co didn't then and don't now. The mere fact they were signed to Apple seems like an afterthought - not unlike James Taylor, the only other act on the label who managed to carve out a career that didn't need the Beatles connection)

I want to think that being signed to Apple was merely incidental and that the MJQ would've delivered the same albums had they been signed to Atlantic at the time. But I cannot. Tied to the most influential act of the decade and their oh so hip record company, I can't fathom them performing without. But it's equally impossible to imagine anyone else recording these albums. This is, after-all, the MJQ.

Ben Webster at Ronnie Scott 1964: The Punch: über-Improvisation

He travelled alone, spurning a permanent touring band for financial reasons but managing to benefit creatively from this. House bands throughout Europe awaited his arrival wondering how they could adapt themselves to suit the great Ben Webster. But they needn't have worried: Ben Webster was there to adapt to them.

The audiences, too, changed wherever he went. In some parts of Europe they'd offer up the most ghostly rounds of applause; elsewhere the commotion would be such to cause the riot police to descend upon a basement bar. Nothing could prepare him for how the crowd would react. In America, they all used to dance to jazz, now they treat it like some intellectual experience; here they do whatever they please. There's an audience.

And as for Ben himself, he never ceased improvising either. Familiarity acts as a disincentive. How can a jazz musician be expected to improvise when they're playing the same old songs with the same old people in the same old towns to the same old audiences? And whatsmore, just how can a soloist be expected to be spontaneous when his private life remains tepid and dull and predictable? How can anything less than an imrpovised life suffice to suit an improvised medium?

Paris Jam Session: What Bud Did

Things start tentatively. Bud Powell, mere accopanyist to no man, kicks off 'Dance of the Infidels' as though he's teaching the melody to the other musicians - or perhaps even to himself. The young Jazz Messengers, perhaps in equal doses terrified and in awe of the illustrious keyboardist sitting in with them, play some safe but unspectacular solos, their lines rushed as though trying to get them over with as quickly as possible. Art Blakey, ever the stoic, hammers his drum kit with authority, hopeful that this makeshift line-up can overcome a sluggish start.

Then, Bud begins to fly. His solo is a mantra: it captures your attention, keeps you momentarily fixated, then allows your mind to wander before it sucks you back in. At its best, jazz is not simply improvised playing: the reaction the music and the mind make while colliding ensures that it can be improvised listening as well.

Lee Morgan eventually asserts himself with brief trumpet flourish that has you convinced that five years have passed since Powell's solo began, not five minutes. He suddenly posesses all the manic drive of Dizzy Gillespie, all the power of Clifford Brown and all the control of Roy Eldridge. By the time that 'Bouncing with Bud' rolls around every player is his best, shamed into inspired soloing by the cantankerous be-bop star on the ivories. Powell wasn't about to accept anything less than number one from himself - why should he be any different with his bandmates? The tune is cleaner and more accomplished than its predecessor but far less interesting; hearing a rag tag bunch get their act together always trumps tight solo dynamics.

Powell departs - the booming applause is more an attempt to continue the music than respond to it - but his shadow hangs over the Jazz Messengers as they finish off the gig. There's a hurried precision to 'A Night in Tunisia' that is impossible to imagine without 'Dance of the Infidels' and 'Bouncing with Bud' having come before. No way were they going to give the audience a colossal let down now that Powell was gone.

Good cop, bad cop: the Jazz Messengers often lacked the element of a strict disciplinarian to keep them in line. In Blakey, they had their kindly English literature prof to nurture them but they only sporadically had a hard driving Biology instructor to push them further. Horace Silver played that roll in the early days and Bud Powell filled in ably on this particular evening. He might have done more for the Jazz Messengers had he stuck around a little longer but didn't he do enough?

On the Corner: A Journey

...and I approach every crosswalk as if it were my last. Part of the thrill of wandering around this city is the inherent danger present. You don't walk through Bangkok's dense, humid air so much as you wade through it. A single, deep breath and your lungs are coated in the same black film that covers every building. No other major city on Earth seems to be as devoid of districts or communities as the Thai capital. Morphing itself continuously, appalling slums turn into palatial estates, modern shopping complexes become Third World government bureaus, ornate temples into shabby markets: you're never on the wrong side of the tracks in Bangkok but always on the other side. The noxious jazz-funk on my walkman is so perfectly suited to my environment that I can scarcely tell the sounds eminating from my earphones from the din on the outside; a cloud of noise surrounds me. For all I know, there could be a tabla player on the other side of the busy thoroughfare and I'm convinced that Miles Davis hired some cat to play the jackhammer on these sessions. I stroll closely past the storefronts in the hope that an opened door will greet me with a blast of welcome air conditioning on the side of my face. There is not another person around and this solitude leaves me feeling uneasy, Davis doing little to calm my nerves. I gingerly approach a stretch of oncoming traffic without a sidewalk to ease my journey, hoping my luck continues to hold out...

The Black Saint and the Sinner Lady: The Culmination of His Being

It's interesting how the rise of the album coincides with one of the low points of jazz over the course of its fifty year peak. The departure of Johnny Hodges in the early-fifties led to the nadir of Duke Ellington's Orchestra. Miles Davis' exceptional Impressions in Modern Music project (it was only later renamed The Birth of the Cool) resulted in high praise all round and a monstrous heroin addiction that made observers wonder if he was finished at the tender age of twenty-four. Charlie Parker was nearing his expiry date. Even Louis Armstrong was at something of a loss around this time, even if he remained an unbeatable concert attraction.

Artists were compelled to adapt to the album era. It's nice to think that commercial pressure railroaded them into selling out but it was nothing of the sort. Even venerable stallwarts like Armstrong and Ellington were intrigued by the possibilities of suddenly having forty-five minutes of music to fill; the latter responded with a series of superb tributes (Fats Waller, W.C. Handy, King Oliver) while the former pursued suites and song cycles (the Shakespeare-inspired Such Sweet Thunder being one of the earliest). This approach was followed up by Davis and Gil Evans on their late-fifties trilogy (Miles Ahead, Porgy and Bess, Sketches of Spain) which makes me wonder if the LP actually helped restore jazz's faith in orchestras at a time when they appeared to be dying away.

This leads us to Charlie Mingus. While others adapted themselves to the new medium, he was probably the first major figure to be perfectly suited to it. Whereas increased length tended to work against many of his contemporaries, it seems Mingus was aware of the peaks and valleys of the LP, just as he was all-too aware of his own strengths and shortcomings. If not necessarily the instigator of the concept album - seeing as how the album was an artifact of broadway it's fair to conclude that there were concept albums from day one - then he was certainly the first to recognize that an integral part of the 12" record was the notion of it being more than the sum of its parts. Is it any wonder rock listeners take to The Black Saint and the Sinner Lady? Like A Love Supreme, it even occasionally feels like a rock and roll album.

His most grandiose statement until 1971's Let My Children Hear Music, The Black Saint and the Sinner Lady is a ballet score waiting to be staged and choreographed. (I'm sure a modern dance company in Bucharest or Houston has indeed put on a movement piece in tribute but it's not the same as the Bolshoi, is it?) While the trio of cuts on the first side glide about amiably, the single track second half is a twisted, ugly step-sister, managing to succeed at summing up the entire album while brilliantly undermining itself. Displaying a sophistication like never before - without sacrificing the musical audacity he had perfected a year previous on Oh Yeah - this is not simply Mingus going from strength to strength but high watermark of jazz in general. It's too bad he couldn't sustain it: no one else could.